Unreal: Killhouse
by thedemigod
Summary: A Tournament-wannabe is goiven a simple job in a well-known town. If he succeeds, Liandri will offer him entry into a local competition. Will he?


The Killhouse

Killhouse

An Unreal short story (or is it?)

"Why have I been selected for this mission?" the thought never stops beating in my head as I move cautiously across the darkened pavement, taking care not to step into the ever-present dog shit that seems to be as common here as concrete.

The area I'm trundling through is the most despicable part of this small city, the city where my targets live, the city where I shall do this last 'favour' and finally gain entry into the Tournament.

"Ahhh…Fuck!" as I slip on a paper bag filled with a glutinous and smelly substance. Looking down, I shake the foot repeatedly, wrinkling my reinforced nose with disgust while the pieces of shit fall from the quickly disintegrating bag.

"Hey!!! Sucker!!" the shout jars my ears but before I have time to look up, the 'shit assassins' are gone.

"Damn these kids!" I hear their brash laughter as they escape skilfully through a badly fixed chain-link fence behind the bar. No point chasing them now…

"Ah, shit…" I mutter.

"Exactly, you moron," my ever-so-helpful brain adds immediately.

As the door swings open with the typical rustic-cum-local bar screech, all the disgustingly tired faces turn in my direction, and all conversations die mid-word.

"What the…" but when I turn towards the offending drunk, he begins to tremble like a leaf caught by Hurricane Angela. Not many people CAN withstand my 'hostile' combat stare, and I didn't expect any of THEM to be here.

Lowering my head in a futile attempt NOT to get any dirt into my hair from the doorframe, I walk inside, looking slowly from one drunken face to another. As the door swings shut it takes away the last breath of fresh air, and my lungs fill with the dense, sweat-filled, long-dead-and-rotting-meat stench that sends a shiver of disgust through my body.

"This must NOT take long…" I make a silent promise.

"What 'da fuck d'ya want here foreign fuck?" rasps the willowy barman.I look him carefully over- that type of bodily construction can house a multitude of nasty surprises, so I never take my eyes of him, walking purposely towards the dirty, beer-soaked bar.

In a flash I'm pulling the struggling loser from behind his wooden castle, and as he fights against my choking grip, I bitch slap him for good measure.

"Fuck…" it probably was a bit TOO strong cause he folds like a doll and the eyes roll WAY back into the tiny skull.

His face is close to mine and I study the characteristic pockmarks and the broken nose, the two easily recognisable features that stood out on his police file. Its him- M.S. The tiny scar behind his right ear confirms my initial ID.

"Die fuc…..ghhhh…" the fat, beer-soaked shooter collapses in a heap as my still smoking AutoMag withdraws to the hidden forearm holster.

Never braking my hold on the unconscious rag doll, I walk behind the bar, carefully placing both feet, trying not to mix the fast-flowing blood with the shit on my expensive reinforced-carbon-titanium boots. Kicking away the sawed-off shotgun, I crouch beside the still-convulsing form.

"Ahhh, damn!" this is my second informer. "Well, no more wasted beer for this fat fuck." My internal software searches quickly for the correct personnel file.

"Scratch B.G."

I look around at the stunned faces and grin invitingly- they withdraw in shock, as if I was the Devil himself, while one stupid female makes a pathetic attempt at a 'runner'. Even before she starts moving I have pinpointed her as a trouble-maker because as my gaze sweeps over her, the thigh muscles on the fat bitch tighten into knots, signifying a powerful, but subconscious desire to flee.

Three steps into her 'dash for freedom' the first Taurydium shards slam into her stomach, and I easily maintain the weapon on target, following the fat bitch. Five steps into the dash, and her stomach is rapidly ripped open, allowing her entrails to fall slowly to the floor, tangling with the pathetically pumping feet. By step seven she begins tripping on her own insides, and starts falling forward, and since I keep the Stinger perfectly level, more of the now-dying woman gets shredded by the flying crystals.

The chest erupts with blood, puss, and plenty of silicon from her disgustingly enlarged breasts, the various fluids and juices mixing into a gel-like substance resembling brown wax. A split second later, the head explodes into tiny pieces that splatter across the nearby wall and two seemingly frozen bystanders. Still falling, she's dead as a Dodo.

I watch the hulk collapse onto the dirty, piss-soaked floor that is now also covered with her own fluids and parts, and only after the hulk stops moving, do I release the Stinger's trigger. A quick look at the magazine counter.

"Whooaaa…" only fifty shards left. My eyes are drawn to the unmoving pile of human flesh. "So that's what a person looks like after 250 well-grouped shards? Damn!"

The left arm snakes under my black leather coat and reattaches the weapon to its mounting. The soft click is very reassuring, and I smile subconsciously.

"Its turning into a good afternoon."

They react immediately and the entire 'herd' makes a mad dash for the door.

"Why do they ALWAYS do that?" I mutter, dropping the still-unconscious informer. I shake both arms repeatedly, like a boxer preparing for a fight, allowing BOTH AutoMags to appear from the wide sleeves.

Mayhem and death ensues. Theirs.


End file.
